


The Perks of Being a Dead Legend

by ShadowValkyrie



Category: My Name is Nobody
Genre: Bad Puns, Community: kink_bingo, M/M, PWP, Rule 34, Short, first-person pov, generational gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-06
Updated: 2009-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:04:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowValkyrie/pseuds/ShadowValkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There isn't much two men on a stolen train in the middle of nowhere could do, is there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perks of Being a Dead Legend

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink_bingo prompt "Worship" (though, much like the movie itself, the fic fails at that a bit). Thanks for a fantastic beta job and anti-Brit-picking goes to Spacelogic. All remaining mistakes are mine. Also: I'm sorry for this. I really am. I blame it all on Terence Hill's prettiness and Henry Fonda's sexy boots. And yes, I'm aware trains probably don't work that way.

Maybe it's true what they say: time don't pass the same when you're dead. And to be dead, your body doesn't need to be cold yet -- or even have caught the bullet. It's enough to know that your fate is decided.

So, same as the longest night of a condemned man's life is the one before the morning he's to hang, the longest days of my life were the ones I spent on a train in the middle of nowhere, with Nobody for company.

We took turns stoking the engine, cooked some beans now and then, and didn't talk much. There was nothing much to see outside, only the vast, bleak emptiness of the desert. But it was better looking there than at him, and that unsettling smile of his, all white teeth and smug self-confidence, that made you unsure whether to hit him or smile back.

*

I have no idea why it happened, or why then. Maybe because it was the last night before we'd reach New Orleans. We were sitting side by side, with the furnace door between us, our backs pressed to the warm metal of the engine against the cold wind blowing in, dim oil lamp swinging overhead, as the train rattled on through the night.

"Ain't you sorry to leave the West?" Nobody asked me. Before that, we'd been silent for several hours, while the shadows grew long and the sun set outside.

"If I were, I could stay."

"It's not a good decision if it's an easy one. Means you're overlooking something."

"What do you wanna hear?" I asked back. "That I'll miss sleeping under the stars or some such? My back's gonna thank me for that, you know. That I'll miss young upstarts coming to wave guns at me, vying for the honor of having killed Jack Beauregard? I don't think so! I'll miss the loneliness, I grant you that. But it ain't like there's much of that left over here, either."

The moonlit desert was rushing by outside, empty as ever, as if to call me a liar, but the smoke of the steam engine obscured the stars as it billowed past, reminding me that this really was a new age and that I was right to leave while there was still something to look back to with fondness.

Nobody laughed. "I'm sorry for that," he said, not sounding repentant in the least. "Though I never could see what's so great about loneliness, anyway."

There was silence for a while. Not the uncomfortable kind between strangers, or the practiced one of people who've known each other too long. Just silence.

"There's never gonna be a hero like you again," Nobody finally said. _Hero_ \-- I wanted to snort at that, but he sounded so calm and serious that I found the melancholy of it touched me as well, cold as the desert wind. I imagined that I could smell the still-warm sand under the ever-present smoke, and thought that by this time tomorrow, there would be the salt of the sea air instead.

"There'll be new heroes," I said, forcing a light tone. "I leave you to walk in my shoes after all."

"Boots, you mean." He glanced down, whistled through his teeth. "And damn fine ones, too." The mocking challenge in his voice was back, and for once I was glad to hear it.

"Well, they were meant to last me a lifetime. I thought they'd bury me in them someday." I frowned. "But I doubt they do that sort of thing back in Europe anymore." I don't know what prompted me to it, maybe the sudden hope in his eyes. "You should probably take them off old Jack's corpse after you've shot him, hm?" He smiled, but I had no way of knowing whether it had been what he'd wanted to hear.

He cocked his head a little. "And you think they'll fit me?"

I shrugged. "Gotta try."

He smiled again, the little smirk that meant mischief. "Right." And before I could demand to know what he was about, he was on all fours and in front of me -- quite a feat in the cramped space of the cab -- and reached out to untie my bootlaces. I relaxed again, amused against my will by how earnest he looked doing it, carefully loosening each knot and tugging the criss-crossing laces apart.

When he had made it all the way down, he tugged, and I let him lift my leg to get the boot off without resistance. He set it aside and started on the other one.

"Shouldn't one be enough for a fitting?" I asked.

"You never know," he said, voice a little rough. "A mountain lion might have bitten off my toes on one side."

"That so?"

"Well, no. But it might have."

"Well, then..." I stretched my leg out for him, and he set to work on it, with just as much concentration, almost... reverence, as the first.

As he pulled this boot off, his hand brushed my leg for a moment. It made me tense, and I realized that he hadn't touched me before, not even accidentally as this. In fact, no one had, for a long time. I don't know why that suddenly seemed important, when it should've been unsurprising. After all, you don't go round feeling up other men unasked; nothing gets you pumped full of lead faster. Especially when it's a man you already behave like a pansy around -- and a lovesick pansy at that.

He kicked his own boots off and for some reason made stepping into mine look like some religious act, complete with his breath held and the smile of the blessed on his lips when he had them on. I remembered his little scene with my hat and wondered again how much of it was a show for my benefit and how much genuine.

"Seem to fit," I remarked, after he had done the laces up and made the two or three steps possible in the limited space back and forth a few times. Then he stretched and turned a little to admire himself from every angle. To be quite honest, my boots looked good on him. On those lean, long legs of his. I looked away.

"Almost," he said. "But there's still some room to grow into."

He shoveled some more coal into the furnace, then sat back down, still running admiring fingers over the leather.

"For now, I'll need them back though," I said. "Jack Beauregard's gotta die with his boots on, after all."

He sighed, but took them off, undoing the laces with a lot less fuss than he had when they'd been on me. Then he came over, crouching down to put them back on my feet.

"Let me do that," I said, leaning forward to take them from him. There were uncomfortably few inches between us for a moment. He smelled of sweat and soot from this close up, with some dust and horse underneath, but then, I supposed, so did I.

Sometimes it pays to be a dead man, too. You don't have to worry about laws anymore, nor what anyone would say. So I pulled his head down and kissed him.

When I drew back, he was silent, staring at me, eyes wide. I wondered if I had guessed wrong. "What's up?" I asked. "My angel swallow his tongue?"

He blinked a little.

"Well, if that's what it takes to shut you up, I should've done it sooner!"

He laughed, and his eyes flitted away. Surprisingly coy for such a brash man all of a sudden. But it seemed he recovered soon enough, because when he looked back up at me, the usual grin was back. "I never would've thought, is all." He moved to straddle my hips. "If I keep talking bullshit at you, will you need to shut me up again?"

"Possibly," I said, a little unnerved at where this conversation had suddenly gone.

"Good. Maybe we can leave out the talking part, though. I can't come up with something right awa-"

I did shut him up. With tongue this time, and, for some reason, a lot of teeth. He went along with way too much enthusiasm, hands braced on my shoulders, whole body moving against me.

After a moment's hesitation, I let my own hands rest against his sides, feel the sleek muscle move over his ribs, then slide lower, grip his waist and just go along as his movements grew less and less coherent, pretending that some sort of guidance happened on my part.

One of his hands left my shoulder and came to rest on my thigh. It jolted me out of my mindless state. What the hell was I doing?

I grasped his wrists firmly and held them away. "I'm too old for that sort of thing," I said, even while feeling for the first time in ages that I really wasn't. I wondered if he could tell how hard I was. I sure as hell could tell with him.

He raised his eyebrows. "You started it," he pointed out, tone dry despite the roughness of his voice.

True enough. And I still had no idea why. _Because he's pretty, is why. Always liked 'em pretty, didn't you, Jack,_ my brother's voice helpfully supplied. I pushed it away. I needed no ghosts to haunt me, and even if I had, Nevada Kid would've been last on the list. That was why I had to go. Too many ghosts in the West.

The thought cooled me down enough to meet his eyes steadily. "It's a bad idea, anyway."

"So was going against the Doherty brothers back in '79," he said mildly. Then he grinned. "And don't forget the Wild Bunch. Bad idea if I ever saw one -- but wasn't it just so much fun?"

I glared at him. "That was--"

"--my idea? True. But still, pretty bad one. Kinda dangerous. But look, it made you a hero."

He struggled to free his hands, but I didn't let him.

"I don't get it," I said, finding that talking at least kept him occupied in a harmless way. "You put that much effort in names and reputations, and then you go blacken them like this? Or don't you think that'll make it into those history books of yours? You don't seem the kind to keep his mouth shut."

"Why, you think anyone will ask?" His smile was brilliant. "In that case, why not tell them the truth? 'Nobody got fucked by Jack Beauregard,' I'll tell them, 'and any man who says different is a filthy damn liar!'" He finally got his hands loose, and promptly put them back on me.

I gave a snort. "Stubborn as a mule, aren't you?"

"Only when it's something I've been wanting for most of my life." He frowned. "I didn't know that until five minutes ago, but I'm pretty sure I was, anyway."

I could almost see him: a lanky, flaxen-haired kid astride on a fence, shooting tin cans and playing at being Jack Beauregard. Seems he'd never grown up. Or maybe, grown up in all the wrong ways.

I gently set a hand on his chest, the worn-out cotton of his shirt stiff with dirt under my palm, and pushed. "And that's a good reason not to, right there. After all this time, it wouldn't be what you wanted. Couldn't be."

He grinned. "Since when have you cared about disappointing me?"

"Cut it out," I said, angry with myself.

He ignored it, smile never wavering. "You should tell me what you want and let me do it. And I promise I can take care of myself just fine."

There was no conscious decision involved, but when he leaned in to kiss me again, I let him. _One last time,_ I thought, _for old times' sake -- the sake of those good old days that never were. Where's the harm in that?_ Just another thing to leave behind when I left the West.

It didn't take long before we were back where we'd left off; two grown men, entangled like boys in a haystack, and just as close to embarrassment. I pulled away, breath coming labored. "Slow down."

He moaned against my neck, unable to stop his hips from bucking. I put a hand in his hair and made him look at me. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. I couldn't help but smile. "Weren't you planning on making yourself useful?" I indicated a suggestive push downward, unfastening my belt and pants with the other hand.

He got the hint. As with everything, he set about it just a little too happily. Still was good at it, though. Started slow and teasing, then went down deep, with his eyes half-closed and his cheeks hollowed in. Let me direct his speed and push him deeper.

It was tempting to finish that way. I would have, if I'd been young enough to get it back up in a reasonable timeframe afterwards.

So I pulled him off instead, hissing when the cold air hit my spit-slick cock.

He leaned back, sitting on his haunches, panting a little, licking his lips and looking smug. He had his hands on his thighs, loosely framing the bulge in his pants. "And now?"

"Clothes off," I ordered.

He did; graceful, even aroused like this, and completely shameless. First went the suspenders, slipped sideways over his shoulders, then he took his shirt off, almost slowly enough to make the gesture more obscene than his mouth on me had been. There were clear lines on his arms and chest, where his skin went from tan to pale. After that, he stood, unbuckled his holster and carefully hung the revolver up on the wall next to his duster, then he toed his socks off and dropped his pants.

It must have been obvious how badly I wanted him back down with me, so he remained standing instead, stretching lazily, well aware he had my full attention. Facing half away from me, he leaned over the counter and, resting on his elbows, dipped his fingers into the pot with the cooking grease, then raised an eyebrow at me over his shoulder.

I nodded, and watched as he slipped a finger into himself. It went in easily. The second took a little work, and by the third there was some discomfort visible on his face. I could see the tension in him, lean muscles moving under his skin, thrown in sharp relief by the play of light and shadow. He was still hard, though, and looked like he enjoyed what he was doing -- if the flush and the heavy breathing were anything to go by.

The hard ground I sat on was getting uncomfortable. I shifted. It seemed to break his concentration and brought his eyes back to mine. "Impatient?" he asked, head cocked, then laughed when I glared at him. But nevertheless, he returned to where he had been, astride over my hips, and, without further ado, lowered himself onto my cock, thighs trembling under my hands. He was tight, but not too much, and he felt good enough to make it hard to breathe. I didn't even try to remember how long it had been since the last time I had done this. I hadn't known I was this starved for it. He gasped and bucked a little as his body protested, but I tightened my hands on his hips and pulled him down further.

When he'd made it all the way down, we both paused a moment, panting against each other's shoulders and shaking with the strain of holding back. His skin was slick with sweat under my hands, and I got a little lost dragging my fingers over it, leaving trails in the soot.

He picked up movement again after a few moments, experimental at first, then faster when it made us both groan. The whole thing was a little awkward, sitting cramped against the engine, hips angled forward, trying to get enough leverage to fuck, but it wasn't like I needed to do all that much. Let the young and vigorous do their part.

And that he did, sliding up and down on me, trying and failing to keep a steady rhythm, clenching against my thrusts. It didn't take long until it got too much for him, and he came, making a mess all over my shirt front, his teeth digging into my shoulder through my jacket. But he was good enough to keep going a little longer, until, finally, there was nothing but blinding, white-hot pleasure for me, either.

For a long time, we were just breathing, the only other sounds the crackling of the coals in the furnace, the hiss and clatter of the train's wheels on the rails, and the occasional howl of a lone coyote outside.

Nobody's teeth released my shoulder eventually, but he still rested against my chest, a warm and heavy weight on me. "Jack?"

I loosened my grip around his waist. "Don't."

His smile was ever so slightly wry. "I wasn't about to." His breath hitched and he bit his lip when I pulled out. Calmly, he did my pants up for me, then stood and stretched once more, slow and languid with satisfaction, not bothering to put anything on. "I was saying, I guess we should get our old lady running again."

I took a look out the window and realized that the train had slowed down to a snail's pace.

"We should," I said. "I'd hate to miss my ship."

"And our duel," Nobody said, his smile a brief, inscrutable flash of white teeth and blue eyes over his sooty, sweaty shoulder, as he reached for the coal shovel.

"And our duel," I agreed.

And that was that.

*

I finally died for real the next day. Well, 'died'. Not that it made any difference. _The_ Jack Bauregard had been dead for a while.

I never saw Nobody again. But sometimes I wonder whether he did make a name for himself, in the end.

 


End file.
